Vegas Blues: I See a Darkness
by the morrighan
Summary: Detective John Sheppard finds you can't choose which memories to keep.
1. Chapter 1

Vegas Blues: I See a Darkness

"_If you fail to cooperate, I have the power to ruin your life."_

Detective John Sheppard hated working with the enemy. Not that the man beside him was an enemy, exactly, but he wasn't a friend. More than an acquaintance but less than a nemesis. John didn't have time to work it out. Didn't care as he was crouched in an abandoned building slated for demolition. The grit and debris were being ground into his knees as he peered over the rim of the broken window, binoculars held up to his face.

As far as stakeouts went this one was pretty routine. Except for the perp in question. A possible space alien using an alien device to transmit an alien disease.

John shook his head over the insanity of it all. Glanced over at the man with him. Rodney McKay was impeccable in his dark suit. On his knees at the next window, peering through binoculars as well. Pursing his lips together as he waited, waited. John smirked at the mess the dust and the grime were making on the other man's finely tailored suit. Clearly he had never dressed for a stakeout before this. "Your people tracked it here?"

"Yes," Rodney answered. He lowered the binoculars. "I have reliable intel. How it got past us I don't understand, except they can be undetectable when they are hibernating. And your source, he tracked the device?"

"Yes. Finally. I also think I found the origin. The starting point for all of this."

"Really? How?" Rodney sounded curious, but doubtful.

"Moira. Using her trajectory not into the city but out of it. Across the state. Following that pathogen or virus or whatever. I needed to confirm some things with her about the virus, if it's a living thing or something else. But the original source is a place called Middlegate Hills." He paused, recalling Moira's anger. How she had tossed him out of her house. Misunderstanding his intentions. He had opened old wounds without meaning to do so. "That's where the ship crashed, isn't it? The...what did you call it?"

"A dart," Rodney confirmed. Impressed. "There were a total of three, but we could never find one of them. Their ships are partly organic. Could be the source of the pathogen, except it is moving. We'll need that intel. I'll send crews there." He was typing it in on his phone. "Call Moira and have her send you the–"

"Can't." He exchanged a glance with Rodney. Resumed his surveillance of the building. All emotions closing, drowning under his stern control.

A smile stole over Rodney's face. He recognized the signs of male guilt. The hunched shoulders. The scowl of both annoyance and regret. The sheepish culpability. "You pissed her off." It was a statement.

John shrugged. "Yeah. Big time. Inadvertently."

"Send her flowers. Roses. Women like roses."

John snorted in derision. Scoffing at the very notion. He didn't do things like that. He glared through the binoculars. Lowered them. Touched the life signs detector that was on the floor near his knee. Instantly it flared to life. John read the dots, deciphering. Rodney had given him the device to help track the suspects. Problem was it only told him there were bodies over there, moving. Not what they were, human or alien or even animal. He sneered at the obvious design flaw. "I've got movement. Second floor. Two beings. It's already there."

"Where are the doughnuts?"

"Huh?" John looked at the scientist, thrown by the question.

"Doughnuts. You know. Food. We're on a stakeout, after all." He looked around, expression forlorn as there was no food in sight. He was quite serious.

John rolled his eyes. "You watch too many movies. I've got gum."

"Spearmint, no doubt." John was silent. Holding up the opened package. "Okay." Rodney took the proffered gum, unwrapped it and popped it into this mouth. "This will just make me hungrier, though." He sighed. "We should have brought pizza," he mourned.

John looked back out the window, amused. "Next time you can stay in the van. Shit. Movement. On the street. It's Ford. What the hell is he doing? I told him to get clear once the merchandise was delivered!"

Aiden Ford was strolling across the street, talking to another guy who was carrying a cardboard box. Chatting as if they were old friends. As if one wasn't a snitch for the cops. To make matters worse he paused. Turned towards the building where John was. Looked up at the window and waved. Actually waved. Smiling.

John inwardly winced. He had little patience for these newbie types. All bright and bushy-tailed. All wet behind the ears and eager for the job. Excited over every possible crime scene, every case until they came face to face with their first dead body. A dead body oozing blood and other fluids or messy pieces. Death was rarely clean. Then they puked all over their shiny shoes and lost that grating enthusiasm. Aiden had yet to lose that shine, that spark. And he wasn't even enrolled in the academy yet.

"One of yours?" Rodney chuckled. Watching as the two men entered the building. "Looks like he's part of it now."

"Wonderful," John muttered. He scoped out the building. It was an abandoned department store. Three floors. Windows boarded up except on the second floor. A dilapidated sign hung at an angle. He stood. "Let me go in alone." He snatched the life signs detector and shoved it into the pocket of his dark brown jacket. Checked the gun at his hip, his badge.

"Are you sure? I can send in a few of my guys with you," Rodney offered. "They have special training in this kind of thing and can–"

"No thanks. I don't play well with others, remember?"

"And that kid? He's your what, protégé? Partner?"

"Neither. Just a kid who proves to be useful now and then. I go in alone." John checked his gun, his badge again. Licked his lips, wishing he had a drink.

"Be careful, Sheppard. I've got back-up if you need it, but we don't want to bring too much attention to this operation. This has to be it this time. Has to be." He shook his head, lamenting the possibility of yet another false alarm. Another failure.

"Maybe. If it's as reliable as your last intel it will probably be a group of homeless people. Or an armadillo. You'll never live that one down, McKay." John smiled as Rodney glowered. With a grunt of satisfaction John descended the stairs. Exited the building. He strolled across the street. It was still, quiet. A deserted part of town due to be renovated. At least it had been until the money had run out, and now it was a dead suburb at the edge of the vibrant city.

The sun was low on the horizon. Casting long shadows between the buildings. A chill went up John's back that had nothing to do with the weather as it was still blazing hot. A few tumbleweeds rolled across his path, and he recalled an eerie _Twilight Zone_ episode featuring them. Or was it _The Outer Limits_? He couldn't quite remember. Only recalled the creepiness factor when he had watched it when he was a kid.

Keeping to the shadows he made his way to the open doors. The locks were smashed. Glass littered the sidewalk. Gun drawn he eased himself inside the building. Darkness swallowed him. Smashed counters littered the floor with glass. Clothing racks were tipped onto their sides, looking like bizarre, metal insects. His gaze ran over the spacious room. The cracked tiled floor. Mannequins smiled at him, blank expressions eerie. All were naked, stripped of their once fashionable outfits.

He fought the urge to sneeze as his quiet footfalls brought up clouds of dust. But he saw multiple footprints and knew he wasn't the first to venture here recently. He eyed the escalator. It's metal steps glinted in a stray beam of sunlight filtering through the rotting boards over the windows. He listened. Heard sounds of boxes being moved. No voices. He slid out the life signs detector. Now there were five dots where there had only been two. He scowled. Slid it back into his pocket. Began to ascend the escalator, step by step. Silent. Gun poised in front of him.

His boots sounded loud on the metal steps. He heard more noises. Indefinable, but indicating motion. Activity. Rising excitement. As he reached the top there was abrupt silence. He froze.

Stared across the empty expanse of the store. There wasn't much up here, unlike the floor beneath him. Sunlight shone through the windows. The floor was dusty, but tracks led across the area to a series of what could only have been fitting rooms. Creepy mannequins smiled.

The sudden scream nearly made him fire his weapon.

He ran towards the sound, caution forgotten. "LVPD! Down on the ground, now!" He entered an wide fitting room, made wider by having all the walls knocked out of the adjoining rooms. A group of people scattered in every direction, except for two.

One was Aiden. The other was the thing on top of him.


	2. Chapter 2

Vegas Blues: I See a Darkness2

"_Somehow you've managed to live with yourself since then. But I'm not sure other people would if they knew the truth."_

John froze. Staring, mouth open. Gun poised in his hands. Aiden was sprawled on the floor, meekly struggling, gasping. A large man was straddled on top of him. Except it wasn't a man. It had oddly greyish skin. Huge, bulging biceps and arms. Bulging thighs. A weird mask enclosed its face. It had one big hand extended, pressing into Aiden's chest. Was almost literally pulling him off the ground with the palm, making Aiden's back arch painfully.

John fired, aiming carefully. His bullet hitting the thing's wrist. Cutting off whatever power it was exerting. But something gushed from the arm and into Aiden. As the young man fell back the creature moved to its feet. Turned, stepping over its victim. John fired repeatedly, at the head, the heart. The monster kept heading for him, uninjured. Not slowed at all.

John's gun was empty. It didn't matter as the creature swung out an arm. Flung John across the room. He landed hard, hitting the floor and rolling, then hitting the wall. He groaned, the breath knocked out of him. Scrambling but the thing was on him. Hand raised, fingers splayed. "Shit," John whispered, realizing this was it. He wished he had apologized to Moira. Realizing his last thought was of her powder blue, lacy thong. Wondering if the bra matched.

A barrage of bullets slammed into the creature. A blast of blue energy sent it flying off him. John rolled, scrambling to his feet as a lithe human was blasting the creature with a large gun. A few marines at his back, using futuristic weapons that emitted lasers instead of bullets. The monster went down at last, writhing on the floor until it became still. Inert. Dead.

John grabbed his gun off the floor. "Thanks," he said gruffly. Moving to look down at the creature. "What the hell is it?"

"Drone." At the female voice he turned, startled. The person with the large gun removed her helmet, revealing a pretty face and a mess of dark curls. She blew them out of her eyes with a smile, eyes roving all over him. "Can't let a fine lookin' man like you get drained by one these fuckers." She tapped her earpiece. "Clear! Unsub is down and out for the count. Retrieval team is clear to go!"

John didn't know what to make of the petite woman. "P90?" he identified the weapon. "I fired a whole round into that thing and it didn't slow an inch."

"Takes more than that toy to take 'em down," she explained. Shrugged. "Usually a whole clip or one of those," she indicated the bulky stun guns with a jerk of her head. "They're tough bastards. Tough as nails."

"Elizabeth! Are you...oh." Rodney halted in his rush. Walked over and eyed the dead creature on the floor. His lips curled in disgust.

"I'm fine, Rodney, quit fussing, would ya? I was just getting around to introducing myself to this fine, fine man I just saved." She smiled. "Elizabeth Weir. Diplomat."

John snorted. "Diplomat?"

"Yes, well, I was, in another life. I think I prefer this kind of diplomacy."

"Drone? Why doesn't it look like the other one?" John asked, eyes back on the body.

"It's the same species, but not as evolved. Look." Rodney knelt, removed the mask. A face of horror greeted John's eyes. An ill-formed nose and eyes and a mouth full of irregularly shaped teeth. A face out of a monster movie. Mutated. Not completely developed. "It must have been hibernating and that's why we couldn't detect it. Until it was activated. Controlled telepathically by our prisoner."

"By Todd the god?" John shrugged as both Rodney and Elizabeth eyed him. "That's what Hayes called it. Practically worshiped the...oh shit! Ford!" John looked round, but the body of the young man was nowhere to be found. "That thing was, was draining him. I shot it and..."

"He can't have gotten far. We'll find him, don't worry." Elizabeth tapped her earpiece. "All teams, move out. One civilian, possible victim, interrupted feeding. Check all areas." She stepped to John. "If you ever want to talk ordnance and size ratios call me." She glanced at the gun in his hand, then to his crotch. "Drinks will be on me, at least the first round." She winked at him. Gestured and left with the marines.

John stared after her. Hands on his hips after he slid his gun into his holster. Shaking his head. "Wow...she's..."

"Yes. She is. And more. Elizabeth! Keep a squad with you at all times!" Rodney ordered.

Elizabeth peered round the doorway, frowning. "I can handle myself, Rodney! What do you think is going to happen to me? It's not like I am going to become infected with a nano-virus and be taken over by some replicator genes and made into a copy of myself, now is it?" she scoffed. Eyed John again, her gaze bold. Assessing. Suggestive. Then she left.

Rodney sighed, watched a group of men roll the creature into a large body bag. "We found the box as well. It looks to be the source of the contagion. It's replicating, growing, a living organism. At least we can contain it now. The Drone was transporting it. To the city. We'll clean up all and any traces of it. John?"

John was looking round, not quite believing that Aiden had survived the attack and then seemingly run away. "I'll post an APB and issue a BOLO for him. He won't get far. If he's still alive, that is. What about those other perps? Who were they?"

"No idea. Probably deluded individuals who were either after the box thinking it was drugs or else being controlled by the Drone. Sometimes people fall under their spell and actually worship them. Like Hayes, I'm guessing. They can prey on the weak-minded."

"Kinda like Jedi, huh?" At Rodney's blank look John sighed. "Never mind." He began to head out of the room. "We're done here, right?"

"Wait, John." Rodney caught up to him. The two men strolled across the deserted expanse of the store. "I need to talk to you."

"About this? No need. I got it. Don't say a word. No one would believe me anyway. It will just go down as a drug bust gone south. In the report."

"I can get that black mark removed from your record."

John stopped. The words unexpected. Startling. Making his gut tense, twitch. He turned to stare at Rodney. The two men were alone. Dust motes were skimming the stale air as the sunlight penetrated the darkness of the store. His gaze narrowed. Suspicious.

"I can't erase the past, John. But I can give you a second chance. Another one. Another shot in the Air Force, except you'd be working for me. A new job. Another–"

"Chance at redemption?" he snarled. "Too late, Rodney. You want me to be like that other John Sheppard. The hero? Ain't gonna happen!"

"Just think about it. You did it once. Were the hero, I mean. You could have left Vegas. You were leaving, weren't you? Until something made you turn your car around. Something made you realize where that Wraith was. Something made you call me. Something made you risk your life to save others. Countless others, John, you saved that day. You saved the planet."

"Stupidity. That's all it was. All right? Get yourself another hero." He walked away, turned back. "And I expect to be paid for my services, McKay, whether I'm on your payroll or not. In cash. Up front next time, too."

John sighed. He had been driving around for hours. There was no sign of Aiden. He checked all of the young man's usual haunts after investigating the desolate neighborhood where he had been attacked. John still marveled over the creature. The Drone, they had called it. A huge, ugly monster he knew he would never be able to forget. He wondered what Moira would make of it. Chased the thought away, scowling. Recalling his blunder. Middlegate Hills. The place where the first ship from outer spaced had crashed.

Also the place where Moira's expedition had gone horribly wrong, resulting in the deaths of four people. Including that of her fiancé. He wondered how she lived with herself after that. Probably much like he did, going day to day in a string of monotony. Broken by various distractions, addictions to keep all thoughts bland, all emotions buried. Having nothing else to do but to continue living. Trying to move beyond the past but forever stuck in it since it was buried deep inside you. Locked away in a dark room in your mind but there all the same.

John considered Rodney's offer. Erasing the black mark on his sealed record. But it wouldn't erase the past. Those deaths on his hands. His hands bloodied by the deaths of four airmen and eight civilians. The crash of the helicopter. The death of that medic. He couldn't bring himself to even think of her name, or to picture her. Instead he buried it all like he always did. Shunted all the past aside and concentrated on the present. On the road ahead of him as he headed back into the city. Back into Vegas.

Back to work.


	3. Chapter 3

Vegas Blues: I See a Darkness3

"_You know, I once met another version of you..."_

John sat at his desk, trying to write up a report about recent events that did not include the words space aliens, alien technology, alien pathogen, or anything else that would surely get him committed. Except McKay's offer, McKay's words were flitting through his mind. A second chance. Redemption. Was it even possible? Was he even worth it? He rubbed his chin. McKay wanted a hero. Someone to rush in and save the day, like that other John Sheppard, impossible as that was to believe.

He tried to imagine another version of himself. Another life that hadn't included such terrible tragedy. Such terrible guilt. He tried to envision a life devoid of all of that. How different a person would he be without it? But he couldn't imagine it. Couldn't see himself as some sort of intergalactic hero saving the day over and over on a weekly basis.

John wasn't a hero. He stared at nothing, the past overtaking him. A crash of a helicopter he had been flying in Afghanistan, on a foolish and foolhardy rescue mission that had ended in disaster. He had gone against direct orders, and not only he but twelve other people had paid the price for that. He hadn't gotten so much as a scratch. While twelve people lay dead all around him. Shot to pieces, butchered by the crash. He had been nearly court-martialed. Had been discharged from the service, all documents sealed. A permanent black mark on his record.

He could still hear the whine of the rotors as the helicopter was shot down. He could still hear the screams of his comrades, his friends. Even of her. He tried to picture her differently, in happier times. Camo scrubs and always a smile for him. Only for him. But he could only remember her the last way he had seen her. Dead. Bloody. Almost decapitated. His stomach lurched and he shut it all down, buried it deep.

These memories were all too accessible. Unlike the ones from six months ago. He hadn't been able to remember anything else. In fact his mind seemed to be shutting down, refusing to give him even fragments of that time now. It was frustrating. Maddening. He wondered if he would ever recover those memories, or whether that part of his life was lost to him forever.

He fingered his phone. Thinking. Middlegate Hills. Where Moira had had a similar horrible experience. Four dead. He didn't know if she had been injured. The details were scant in the police records. If anyone would understand it would be her. Understand the darkness. The guilt. The grim necessity of burying it all in order to continue living. He sighed, withdrew his hand from his phone. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to talk about anything. He hated talking.

God he wished he had a drink. He glanced down at the drawer where he kept a secret bottle of Scotch. But he shook his head. Accessed his computer. So far there were no leads on the whereabouts of Ford. He wondered if the kid was already dead. Another death due to his negligence, his stupidity. The culpability would eat him alive if he let it. He leaned, about to open the drawer. About to reach for that bottle, that escape.

"Sheppard!"

He scowled, hearing the merriment in the man's voice. Looked up to see a tall, black-haired man peering round the open doorway. "What?" he snapped. "What is it, Cole?"

"You've got to see this, Shep! You won't believe it!"

"Won't believe what?" But Coles gestured, grinned and entered the main precinct room. John softly swore. Irritated. He stood, exited his office. Men were arrayed around a desk, all leaning towards a computer. Gales of laughter filled the room. "What the hell is this?" John snapped.

"You! You made quite the impression, Shep! I thought it was just your yearly harem, those round table girls, but this, this is new. Got your own fan sites now. I'm impressed!"

"What?" John neared, pained expression on his face. Men parted for him to see, grins and amusement grating. A few patted him on the back, as if he had somehow accomplished some milestone without even knowing it. "I don't believe this," he muttered.

"Look!" A man seated at the desk pointed. He was still wearing his bulletproof vest, too excited to remove it yet. "I googled you on a dare and look what came up! It's called thunking! I learned a new word!"

"Well, good for you, Danville. Lord knows you need 'em," John noted sourly. Laughter.

"Who says the internet isn't educational!" Danville jested. "Look at this, Shep! It's mostly posts about you. Some about your job and such, about various cases you've worked on and stuff like that, but mostly about how hot you are. One is obsessed with your hands. There's a whole thread about your hair! There's another one here, who has quite the thing for your mouth." He scrolled down across the postings. "And quite a lot are rather graphic about other, er, parts of your anatomy. I never knew women talked that way," he marveled.

"Only to other women," one noted. Laughter filled the room.

"Look! They post pics too...wow! You really shouldn't have leaned over like that." Danville snorted as the men guffawed. "Forget your undies that day, Shep? And in jeans? Didn't that chafe at all? In the desert heat? Ouch!"

"Enough!" John declared as uproarious hilarity erupted. He stared at the pictures, shaking his head. Embarrassed and flattered all at once as he skimmed the comments.

"I bet they even write fics about you, stories about the detective and his adventures, and of course rather naughty stories about you and your–"

"Shut up!"

"Hey, what about this one? ShepScoop? Says they have your ear. Is that true?"

"Hell no!"

"This one's not so bad. JFJST something something see? Even has a detective theme going which ties into your work. Pretty cool, huh? They seem nicer than that ShepScoop place. Not as pushy or as demanding."

"Maybe you should get on Twitter next, Shep, and then you can auction off your wristband on Ebay!"

"And how would they know it was mine?" John retorted. "Fuck this!" He switched off the computer. A chorus of disappointment filled the room. "I'm certain you clowns have other things to do than to google me! Like actual work, for instance? Solving actual crimes? Get to work, damn it! God I hate the internet!"

"What about Twitter, Shep?"

"No one cares what I had for breakfast, Cole!" John fumed. "They wouldn't get my sense of humor anyway," he muttered. "I'm sure there's a dead body somewhere in Vegas! If not the next one will be yours!" He stalked back to his office, slamming the door shut. He sat at his desk, fuming. Glaring at his computer. As if the machine was guilty somehow.

He wasn't a stranger to the media or to the press. He'd been in newspaper articles, been photographed at crime scenes or attended press conferences he couldn't get out of attending. It was part of the job and he accepted it, however unhappily. But this odd adulation was something new. Unexpected. Flattering to be sure but surreal all the same. His fingers tapped the keyboard, tempted to google himself, or at least check out that one site that sounded rather interesting. The JFJST whatever whatever. He refrained, smirking at his own vanity.

Instead he looked round the office. Anger cooling. He eyed the Johnny Cash poster on the wall. It was slightly askew, as if it had been hastily restored. He stood. Moved to it. Touched the corner of the poster that was curling up, the tape not sticking to the wall. Suddenly he remembered taking it down. Rolling it up and putting it into a box of his stuff. Exiting the office and handing the box to his boss Hendricks. Retrieving the poster and only taking that with him.

Quitting. But why? John frowned. Stared at the poster but it yielded no answers. He could imagine quitting easily enough. Sometimes he absolutely hated his job. It had taken four tries just to make detective. He was a loner. No one wanted to work with him. He was standoffish, rude. Deliberately to keep everyone at arm's length. At least he had been before whatever had happened to him. He touched his chest. Felt the scabs. Shook his head.

There was no way he could have quit. There wasn't enough money in the bank, certainly there wasn't back then to even think of quitting cold turkey like that. Not with the gambling debts lining up. Not with the bills piling up. Not with the rent past due. He stared round the office, trying to remember. But he hit a blank. A wall. Another gap in his memory.

He fingered his white wristband. Wondered how much he would get for it if he did in fact auction it on Ebay. He snorted at the thought. Who would want it? He shook his head at his own foolishness. Turned in the chair to look at a filing cabinet. Old case files might sell better. Especially if he signed them. Again he snorted, finding the notion silly. Comical.

He was a Las Vegas detective, not some famous Hollywood actor.


	4. Chapter 4

Vegas Blues: I See a Darkness4

"_Nothing is what you think it is."_

John sat at the bar. Drinking. The song _Paint It, Black_ was rocking in the background, perfectly matching his sour mood. He was mulling over McKay's offer yet again. It circled his mind, never leaving. Having that black mark expunged from his record. But not from his soul. Starting over anew in the Air Force. God he missed flying. Working under the aegis of McKay, however. And by extension Woolsey. Taking orders from a trumped-up scientist and a lawyer. He shook his head. Expletives in his mind. Hunting down aliens in his spare time.

He snorted. It sounded like a television series. A sci-fi tv series. The kind of show to be found on cable where it would gain a small but devoted and passionate audience, if the lead actor was already known to the sci-fi community and popular. He could see it running for a few years before the guys in charge dragged it down and destroyed it by relegating the lead character to the background and introducing an awkward love interest for the second lead. Then going on a power hungry rush and firing actors and running a once great show into the ground for no good reason except to pursue their own supposed artistic endeavors. To change direction so radically the fans would refuse to follow. He'd seen it happen before. Many times.

But he could imagine a different fate for a television show about a down and out detective, much like himself, hunting aliens for a secret government agency in the middle of nowhere. An action adventure comedic show, that was the ticket! As long as the lead actor had more control over the situation, over the producing and the writing and maybe even got to finally direct a few episodes for a change. And being in charge he could always make certain that everyone was treated well, was treated fairly. That everyone cared about the show and the characters, as much as the fans did. And he could even invite new writers, people who shared the same ideas, the same vision even if they were unknown and ingenues when it came to the business but who wrote brilliant stories in the same vein.

"Can I join you?" John looked over as another man sat on the stool next to him. Ordered the same drink. A shot of Scotch. He appeared weary, brown hair askew, trim beard a little ragged. Blue eyes scouring the bar until he spotted a bowl of pretzels and pulled it closer to himself. "Tough day?"

John recognized him. Moira's artist guy. "Yeah, you could say that. Evan Lorne, right? Moira's um, um, friend?" he finally decided on the word.

"Yes, in a manner of speaking. Sheppard, right? The detective."

"Yeah."

The two men drank in silence. Munched on handfuls of tiny pretzels. Each locked in their own dismal thoughts, listening to the song in the background. Both gestured at the same time. The barmaid filled their glasses. Frowned at John but smiled invitingly at Evan.

"You ever find that, that thing? The one I did the sketch of from the skull?" Evan asked, watching the barmaid sashay down the counter to another customer. Little tight black skirt hugging her rear.

"In a manner of speaking." John paused. Frowning. "You were Air Force once. Right?"

Evan met his gaze. "Yeah. What did you do, check up on me?"

"It's my job. I was, too. Once."

"Oh. Ever miss it?

"Sometimes. The flying."

"Yeah. The flying. Not the rest, though."

"Why you'd quit? You were discharged, right?"

Evan scowled. "For disobeying orders. You?"

"The same. Then I totally fucked up. You?"

"I refused to fire on civilians. I'm not supposed to talk about it." He gestured. Their glasses were filled again. He waited until the barmaid had left them alone. "How did you fuck up, exactly? For not killing when you should have?"

"No. For killing when I shouldn't have. Long story."

The two men fell silent again. Brooding as they drank, ate pretzels. John wondered why he had come here, to Beckett's of all places. It wasn't one of his usual haunts. Nor was it like him to open up about his past to a total stranger. He pondered this as he stared at the rows of alcohol lining the bar. Every kind of escape could be found here, at least of the drinking kind. "How's the doc?" he asked at last.

Evan shrugged. "Mending, Moira said. I don't really know him. She said he's been through worse, though."

"We all have," John agreed.

"You need to stay away from her," Evan said suddenly. Even as he smiled at the barmaid who was again giving him the eye.

John eyed the other man. "Who? Moira? Why? You got dibs on her or something?"

Evan smiled. "Something like that. I don't want anything to happen to her. Like it did to Beckett."

"Neither do I."

"So stay away from her."

"I don't take orders well."

"Then take it as a request, then."

"I'm sure Moira can make her own decisions."

"Yes, she can, and they usually turn out to be bad ones. The wrong ones."

"Like hooking up with you? Yeah, I can see that."

Evan met his gaze. Frowned. "Just don't get involved with her."

"She's not my type anyway."

"Good." A pause. "That thing. It was real? A real alien, I mean?"

"Apparently."

"Wow. Did you actually see it?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm done talking." He stood. Threw money on the counter and left.

John sat in his apartment. Going over those old case files yet again, but his mind was a blank. No, not a blank, but focused on his past. The things he'd rather not think about. The things he had buried. All the way back to the murder of his mother, to the horrific crash in Afghanistan. He swore, shoved the files across the table. Reclined and rubbed his eyes. Slouching on the couch, waiting for the inevitable headache. But like those memories of his recent past, the ones he wanted to remember it didn't invade his head. Hovered at the fringes of his mind, indistinct. Elusive. Not that he wanted the headache but he did want his full memory restored.

He picked up his phone. Considering the option of finding some cheap female company to distract him. To wile away the evening. But he hesitated. Thinking of Moira again. Of Evan's warning. He smiled. More amused than angered. He set down the phone. Pulled out the sabertooth he had snatched from the pawn shop. He turned it over in his hands, looking at it. Ran his fingers over the smooth, polished bone. Curved to a wicked point. Surprised he hadn't scratched himself on it yet. He smirked. Thinking he should have asked Evan how Moira was in bed. What she was like. What she liked. But he'd rather discover that for himself. And he knew, he just knew she'd be different with him.

He snatched his phone. Hesitated. Brought up her number. Waited. It went to voice mail.

"Hey, Moira...it's me. John. John Sheppard. Detective John Sheppard. Give me a call when you get this, okay? It's um, it's about the case." He set down the phone, shaking his head as his own awkwardness.

He leaned forward to examine the files once again. The reports, the gruesome photos of the drained victims. To force himself to remember.

Unfortunately the wrong memories came to the surface.


	5. Chapter 5

Vegas Blues: I See a Darkness5

"_Certainly you didn't intend things to go as badly as they did. Things just don't always go the way we plan."_

The heat is impenetrable. Suffocating. A dry, desert heat. But this isn't the Mojave. This is Afghanistan. Nothing but sand for miles. Nothing but heat, waves and waves not only from the sun but from the still spinning blades of the helicopter. From the two that are still left intact, that is, after being shot down by an ground-to-air missile. A shot that should have blown the machine apart if not for John's quick maneuvering.

Still he couldn't avoid the crash. Couldn't control the bird as it spiraled, spiraled, then hit the sand hard. Splintering and shuddering in agony. Much as everyone on board did. And he couldn't avoid the tiny settlement under him. Hit tents and ropes and careened into a group of people who were trying to run out of the way. But they didn't make it in time. Not all of them. Not eight of them. A few were children.

The four soldiers are flung out of the helicopter as it skids to a halt at last, churning up dirt and sand and bodies in its wake. Guns are being shot. One of the soldiers is a woman, a medic and she is perilously close to the spinning, spinning blades. John calls out a warning but a shot makes him duck, tumble harmlessly out of the cockpit and into the sand. Into the trench beneath the aircraft. He struggles, swimming almost as he climbs out of the hole. He will be buried alive if he doesn't move. As the machine whines and shifts above him. He is plunged into darkness and feels a chill. A presentiment of death. But not his own.

There are screams. Shouts. Pleadings. Gunfire. A rapid language that John identifies as Arabic. Then more gunfire. Machine guns. American voices. Rescue! He grabs the sand, fighting, hauling himself out of the trench. Straining every muscle as at last he reaches the lip of the hole and rolls over it, out of it. The helicopter falls into the rift. Sputtering. The blades are still at last. Black smoke rises into the pale, pale sky. John rests a moment. Only a moment. Then he is up on his feet, gun in his hand as he lurches along the path of destruction.

Nothing to this point had prepared him for this. Not even the murder of his mother.

The sight that greets his eyes is something out of a nightmare. Bodies strewn along the path like so much garbage. Civilians. Soldiers. Blood and body parts leaving a terrible trail for him to follow. Men shouting, gesturing, but he ignores them. Stumbling along, in shock as he sees her. Prone on the sand. Body a wreck, bent unnaturally. Head almost severed but her expression, her expression is almost serene. Not one of shock or fear or anger, but at peace. He feels the urge to vomit when a massive explosion flares at his back. Knocks him forcefully to the ground. A fireball burning behind him as the helicopter explodes.

His last sight is of her. Then darkness swallows him.

John woke with a start. Tense, jerking upright on the couch. Heart thudding so fast he expected it to pop right out of his chest. He was sweating, delirious with fear, anger, guilt. A lump in his throat, tears in his eyes as he had vividly relived every second of that last mission. Defying direct orders to rescue her, to rescue them all. Only to end up killing them all. Killing her.

John wiped his eyes. The room was plunged into darkness. It was late. He licked his dry lips. Swallowed past the lump in his throat. He reached across the table for the half empty bottle of beer. Drank it in long swallows although the liquid was flat, warm. He reached into his pocket to feel the odd reassurance of the sabertooth. He grabbed his phone to see if he had missed Moira's call when it rang. "Yeah?" he snapped. Forcing down all emotion, all memory.

"Hey, Mulder, we got another one."

"Huh? Phillips, cut the crap! Another what?"

"Murder, what else? Edge of the Strip. Sending you the address now."

"On my way." John stood. Eyed his watch. It was nearly midnight. The witching hour. He grabbed his jacket, his badge, his gun. Left his apartment, shaking off the vestiges of his nightmare. Of his memory. Of his past.

Vegas was lit up like a Christmas tree at all hours so you never really knew what time it was unless you looked at a clock. Even the far end of the Strip was full of neon-colored lights and garish sings. Casinos. Bars. Wedding chapels. Stores. All open at all hours. The city never slept. Tourists lined the streets. Cabs and shuttles running along the road.

John was forced to park a few blocks away from the scene of the crime. He sprinted across the street, narrowly avoided being hit by a shuttle full of drunken tourists. He pushed past onlookers and witnesses, past the line of policemen trying to maintain some semblance of order. He ducked under the crime scene tape and stood looking down at the body. "Looks like GSW to the head. Robbery?" he asked. He eyed the victim.

A middle-aged man in a nicely tailored suit was sprawled on the sidewalk. He had a receding hairline. Foreign-looking features. He looked vaguely familiar but John couldn't quite place him. "Yes," the policeman squatting hear him answered, carefully checking the man's pockets. "His wallet is gone. His watch is gone as well. ME is on the way, but this looks recent. We got the call about an hour ago."

"Open his shirt," John instructed. Glancing up to see the crowd of onlookers was growing. To see the cops canvassing the area. He looked back to see the man staring at him, quizzical expression on his face. "Just do it. And why am I here again, Phillips?"

"What, need your beauty sleep, Shep? Oh, I guess you do since you are the internet star of the month, aren't you?" Phillips jested, nevertheless opening the starched white shirt on the victim.

"Shut up, Phillips! Well?"

"What the hell is that?"

John stared. There were distinctive marks on the victim's chest. Circular indentations on the skin. Except for the fact that they weren't very deep. Except for the fact that the victim wasn't drained of any fluids. Only the blood seeping from the back of his skull. Except for the fact that the victim hadn't visibly aged. It wasn't the same, but was made to appear the same.

"Wow...what is that? The Vegas Vampire is on the prowl again?" Chuck Campbell had forced his way to the body, flashing his press badge like a banner. He snapped a picture.

"What the hell are you doing here?" John flared, furious.

"Wait, those aren't the same, are they? The body's not drained like the others. A copycat! It must be. But why? What's the motive? How was he killed? Is this connected to the other–"

"Enough! Aren't you up past your bedtime, Chuck?" He forcibly grabbed the reporter, shoved him back towards the policemen. "Get him out of here! This is a crime scene!"

"This is news, Sheppard!"

"It's a robbery gone bad, nothing more! Now get lost!"

"I figured something was up because they called you!"

"Only my temper! Now get lost or I will arrest you for obstruction!" He shoved.

Chuck nearly fell, caught himself. "I'm only doing my job, Sheppard! You can't muzzle the press!" he shouted, as he was dragged away from the scene.

John glared. Turned back to the body. Saw nothing out of the ordinary. He squatted. Saw it. A business card on the sidewalk near the victim's outstretched hand. He grabbed it. Saw it was his. "This?"

"Did you know him?" Phillips asked, closing the shirt and moving to his feet.

John shook his head. "No. I..." A flash of memory, quick as the blink of an eye. The man seated at a computer. In a room full of them. With McKay and Woolsey. "I've no idea who he is." Something else caught his eye. He slid his fingers under the man's leg. Something had fallen out of his pocket. A small device. Smashed. A tracking device, John realized.

"Then how did he get your card?" Phillips asked.

John shrugged. Looked around suddenly, half expecting to see Caldwell. The crowd was anonymous. Gawkers and tourists and lowlifes all mixed. All straining to see past the cops and the forensic team as they finally reached the street. All eager to see a real dead body. Blood trickling in a stream across the sidewalk. The neon lights were shining on the crimson liquid. "Any witnesses?"

"No. Gunshots reported being heard. Found the guy like this. No one saw the shooter. What was he doing here? He doesn't look like the gambling type."

"No, he doesn't." John watched DeMouy and her team as they swarmed around the victim. One taking the man's hand, pressing his finger to a small electronic device. Keying in his fingerprint to find a match, a record if it existed.

"John, did you see–"

"Yes. The marks. But they're not like the others," he informed. Met her puzzled gaze. "Looks like we have a copycat, after all."


	6. Chapter 6

Vegas Blues: I See a Darkness6

"_I think people choose to live in their own happy little delusions. They don't really wanna know the truth."_

"Radek Zelenka," the female technician pronounced, reading off the scan she had taken. "DMV records indicate he is a Czech national, been in this country for five years. No criminal record but he's got some serious security clearance. A physicist."

"That's odd. Not that he's a physicist but that he was here, all of places," John mused. "I guess even scientists need to cut loose once in awhile." But it didn't feel right. Something was nagging at him and he couldn't put his finger on it.

He looked up at the casino. Bright lights stinging his eyes. The noise of the slot machines audible even out here. The constant clank and chime as money was lost and won and lost again. He could smell the alcohol. He could see that business was going on as usual even though a murder had been committed practically on the doorstep.

"What happened? My God, what happened?" Rodney pushed his way through, flashing a badge that appeared both authentic and mysterious at the same time. "John?"

John met his grief-stricken, shocked expression. "Found him here, like this. Robbery gone bad. Or so it appears. Marks on the chest but not like the others. A copycat. And oh, yours?" He handed Rodney the tracking device.

Rodney took it, stunned. Looked at Radek again. "That, that doesn't make any sense! Unless..."

"Unless? Spill it, Rodney."

Rodney hesitated. Took John's arm and drew him to one side. Past the policemen and forensics and gawkers. Away from the glaring lights and the noises of the casino. "He was going to meet some people. Some, er, sympathizers. That's why he had the tracking device. But we lost him."

"Sympathizers? What the hell does that mean?"

"There are some who fall under the spell of the, the creatures. Remember? The weak-minded. Even go so far as to worship them. Do their bidding."

John frowned. "Like the ones in that stakeout, got it. Like that whack job Hayes who killed Marcus. You're telling me there's more of them out there? Here, in Vegas?"

"Yes, unfortunately. It's like a cult, really. The Wraith can control their minds to some extent, find the vulnerabilities and prey upon them. But it's more. We've been tracking them. For some reason they are gathering here. Quietly, in growing numbers. We have been trying to infiltrate them. Get a man in on the inside."

"This Radek guy?"

"Yes. He was good at it too, pretending to be on their side. But apparently someone tipped them off he was a, a spy." Rodney looked over as Radek's body was zipped up into a body bag. He shook his head. "Despite our differences the man was a pretty good physicist. A good friend." His hand closed tightly over the smashed tracking device.

"But not so good at covert ops, apparently. Are you telling me that a bunch of, of Renfield types are converging on Vegas looking for what? Their maker? Their god?"

"Yes. Oh my God! His key card! Was his key card on him?"

"No. Everything was stolen except the tracking device."

"Oh no! Oh no! That's what they were after! The key card to our facility! Of course!" He snapped his fingers. "That must be their plan! To somehow liberate Todd! I don't know how he's even communicating with them but he is. Still babbling his bad poetry about the desert and the full moon and the coming tide and other nonsense. Unless he's having help, somehow. Someone." His brow furrowed at the thought. Mind racing.

John shrugged. "Then it's your problem, not mine." He began to head for his car.

"Wait! You can't just walk away from this!" Rodney followed.

"Watch me."

"John! We're going to need your help! Isn't it obvious?"

"What's obvious? As far as I'm concerned this is your problem. Not mine. Unless it happens to involve innocent civilians. Get your cronies to deal with the problem. Or better yet use that Weir chick to sort them out. That woman's got some serious arsenal at her disposal. I've got a homicide to solve and that's all."

"You can't walk away, John! These people, these fanatics are going to do whatever it takes to free him! They're even trying to feed like him now! Who knows what they may do next! Who else will have to pay the price for their insanity?"

"It's your problem, McKay. You created it by keeping that, that thing alive in the first place. Didn't you?"

"What do you want me to do, Sheppard? Put out an APB on some rogue copycat who thinks he's a Wraith? What if it's Ford? Have you even considered that?"

John froze. "It's not Ford."

"Are you sure? That enzyme is surging through his body, and quite frankly we don't know what it will do to him. And when he comes off it, he'll need more. It's like a drug. That much we do know. And if he can't get it..." Rodney left the rest unsaid. "John, we need your help on this. You're the only one who knows."

"Knows?" He turned back to Rodney. "I only know as much as you care to tell me. Pieces! I haven't been able to remember anything else, and maybe that's a good thing! I've been mopping up after your mess for weeks now! Having to invent fictions to cover the truth because the truth, the truth is unbelievable! I've had enough of dancing round the facts! It's your mess, McKay. You deal with it!" He turned, began to head for his car.

"Have you considered my job offer, Sheppard? John! Have you?" Rodney rushed after him, grabbed the other man's arm, halting him. Released him as John turned to face him. The two men stared at each other. Sizing each other up, assessing. Mutual antagonism, distrust dividing them. It was a perilous moment. It felt like a precipice, as the two men stood in the relative darkness of the side street. The night air was warm, still.

"Yeah. I have." John said nothing else. Offered no other answer or explanation. He turned, and left without another word. Left Rodney to stare after him, dumbfounded. Grief-stricken.

Alone.

"Crackpots?" Hendricks shook his head, set down a report as he sat at his desk. Dubious look on his face as he eyed John. He rubbed his chin. Shook his head again.

"Worse than that. Religious fanatics searching for their leader. Killing people they think have the information or things they need. They're going to converge on this area," John tapped his finger on a map he spread on the desk. A map of the desert. "And I think I know when. The full moon. It's in two days."

"Great. And your informant is reliable?"

"Very."

"Why out there in the middle of nowhere? What's out there?"

"Some government facility. Research, I think," John hedged. "I don't know the exact location. Classified science stuff. But these...these fanatics think their leader is being held there." He hedged around the truth. Cutting out the fantastic for the bare facts.

Hendricks considered, pursing his lips together. "Hmm. It's not on any database I can access." He looked at John. John kept his expression neutral. Waiting. "Pity we can't round them up before then. Before someone else is targeted. Any ideas?"

"Maybe. I might have an idea to lure them out of hiding. To get them all in one place before this event takes place. But it's a bit tricky. A bit unorthodox." He paused. "And I'll need some funds to get the bait. A few hundred should do it." He waited, tensing. Not exactly sure how much it would cost him, but if it didn't cost that much and he skimmed a bit off the top no one would notice. Probably.

Hendricks was staring at him, as if sizing him up. As if guessing his secret thoughts, secret motives. Finally decided with a quick shrug. "Nothing's ever easy with you, Sheppard."

John shrugged in response. "No, nothing ever is," he agreed.


	7. Chapter 7

Vegas Blues: I See a Darkness7

"_Don't worry. Everything's under control."_

"Hey, Shep! Heard you been lookin' for me!"

John had been rifling through a file in his office when the familiar voice assailed him. He whirled, stared. Aiden was peering round the doorframe. John didn't react. He stepped to his desk. Sat, setting a file on the table. "What's with the eyepatch?" he asked, tone neutral. Hand sliding to a drawer where he kept a 9mm, just in case.

Aiden smiled, entered. Closed the door behind him. He was a mess. Clothes dirty, torn. He was wearing an eyepatch over one eye. But it couldn't hide the scarring on that side of his face. He appeared gaunt, as if he hadn't been eating properly. He plopped down in the chair in front of the desk. "Cool, huh? Check it out!" He lifted it to reveal a solid black eye. Dropped it back into place. "Don't worry, I can see out of it fine. Better, even. Even at night! I've never felt better, Shep! I mean at first I thought I was going to die. What was that thing, anyway? Until you shot it. Then something surged into me and I ran. Now I feel incredible! I'm stronger, faster, smarter! I'll be the perfect partner now!"

John finally spoke. "Where have you been?"

"All over! Scored some jackpots! You wouldn't believe how easy it is now to fool the machine into a win! You should try it. I'll show you! I ran into a group of people. Weirdos who thought I was some sort of, of, acolyte, yes, that's what they said! They are looking for that, that monster, or another like it. Said they could help me, but I wanted to talk to you first. I wasn't sure about them. So I was doing that. And laying low." His expression darkened. "You've been lookin' for me. You all have."

"I was concerned," John said. Fingers easing the drawer open silently. "Can't have my new partner AWOL on the first job, now can I?"

"Your new...seriously?" Aiden beamed. But he scowled again. "You said you didn't want a partner."

"That was before you got all these new abilities, buddy. Tell me about it." John's fingers touched cool metal. The gun.

Aiden brightened again. "It's amazing! An energy surge. Except I can feel it getting weaker. I need something, but I don't know what. You know? I'm not on drugs or anything! This is, this is better than drugs! I proved myself, didn't I?"

"You certainly did. But you need to do something first. That group of people you ran into, remember? You need to get word to them that their god is going to be at Vincent's. You know the place?"

"That abandoned apartment complex on the other side of town. Yeah, I've squatted there. So I do this for you and then I'm your partner? I don't have to take the exam, do I?"

"No, you do this and you are in, buddy. Oh, you'll have to take the medical, though. I can't get round that, I'm afraid." The gun was loaded. John flicked off the safety with the barest of touches.

"Really? I don't like doctors," Aiden complained.

"Neither do I, but I know a guy and he's real good. Will look the other way, if you know what I mean. Maybe even find you some more of whatever you need."

"Really? You'd do that for me? What do you think's gonna happen to me? Am I going to be attacked by some monster, left for dead, discovered, mutated, replaced by some bigger guy and then left in some limbo out there without a proper ending to the story?" He paused, shaking his head. "You'd help me?"

"Of course, partner. You–"

Aiden stood. Scowling. "You think I'm stupid, don't you? Don't you? Just some punk kid, some wannabe cop? You're lying to me! You want to bring me in!"

"I want to help you, Ford. Calm down. Don't force my hand."

"No! I'll prove to you I can do this, Sheppard! I'll deliver your message and then you'll see! You'll all see!"

John stood, drawing the weapon. "Don't make me shoot you, Aiden!"

"Go ahead! It won't hurt me! Nothing can hurt me now!"

"Ford!" John shouted, but Aiden whirled and flung open the door. Ran out of the office in a blur of speed that astounded John. Alarmed him. "Ford! Stop him!" John shouted, but he didn't mean it. He needed to use the young man to set the trap, as much as he might dislike it. As much as he wanted to help the kid he needed him more as a snitch to plant the bait.

Men were scrambling to grab Aiden. But incredibly he eluded them. Hurling men twice his size as if they were no more than dolls. Crashing them into desks and walls. He leapt over chairs, whirling and fighting. Guns were fired but the bullets bounced off him, harmless. With a dramatic dive he flew towards the door, through the glass, knocking two policemen to either side of him. Leaving utter chaos in his wake.

John ran after him, glass crunching under his shoes. "Ford!" he bellowed. The heat of the day hit him like a slap. Stifling. Aiden was nowhere in sight. John looked up and down the street. There was no sign of him. "Shit!" he said forcefully. Ignored the commotion behind him.

Hendricks joined him. "Did it work?"

"Yes. He bought it. I think. He's not quite stable, but I think he bought it."

"Good. I'll mobilize a search to make it look good. This had better work, John. That kid is most definitely on something, and he needs help."

"I know. I know."

The art gallery was cool. Cold as the air conditioner was an almost solid wall of sound. John glanced at the various paintings and sculptures. Most were abstracts. Splashes of color and weird shapes. Some more interesting pieces contained the bodies of insects set in curious but fascinating patterns. Butterflies. Bees. John wanted to pause to eye a few, but he stepped to the counter. Rang the bell and waited. Rang it again. The song _You're No Good_ was playing softly in the background, but was abruptly silenced.

Evan stepped out of the back room. "What do you want?" he asked. "Wait, don't tell me. You wanna buy a painting?"

"No. I want you to design something for me," John stated, ignoring the sarcasm.

"A commission? From you? I don't work on commission, buddy."

"You do now." He flashed his badge. "Police business. I need a 3-D rendering of that...that thing you made. From the skull, remember? I know you kept all the schematics. I need a 3-D model of it. Life size."

Evan stared. "Why?"

"It's my Halloween costume," John quipped. "Just do it."

"Why?" Evan repeated. Scowling. "Why do you want it?"

"Some perp is killing people and this is the only way to stop him. Unless you want me to involve Moira in this you'll make the piece for me. I need it by five."

"An hour? I can't do that in an hour! And If I do it will cost you extra! Sheppard? Shep!" he called, but John had turned and left the shop. Confident Evan could do it, and on time as well.

John strolled to his car. Got in and grabbed his phone. Input the number. Waited. Waited. "McKay, it's a go. At five. Vincent's. Our people are handling it so don't call in your goons. But you better be there just the same. You've got a spy in your midst, and I'm betting that spy will be there to head them off." Before Rodney could reply John ended the connection.

It was the only thing that made sense. Who else would know about the creatures but someone in the organization itself? Rodney had suspected, but John was certain. Not only was Todd somehow directing people, but the spy was as well. The spy who had revealed Zelenka and gotten him killed. Who had somehow made it easier for Todd to communicate with his worshipers. Who was cleaning up as effectively as Caldwell had, but for different reasons. Reasons that were unclear but soon would be.

He sighed. Wondering if Aiden would get the word out, would contact them with the message. The plan didn't hinge on it but it would surely help lay the trap. And if Aiden was grabbed along with the rest so much the better. He owed the kid that much, at least. To get him off the street and the medical help he needed.

If any was to be given.


	8. Chapter 8

Vegas Blues: I See a Darkness8

"_You were a hero. Saved the world several times over."_

John sat in the car. Not his car. His was too recognizable, too visible. No, this was a derelict wreck that was sitting along the street with some others. Abandoned. Even the wheels were gone. The interior was dirty, rusting. A perfect hiding place as the setting sun sent shadows along this side of the street. Concealing both him and the team lurking. All waiting. Waiting for the suspects to take the bait. To round them up before anyone else got hurt. Or worse.

Hendricks had put John in charge of the whole operation, surprising both him and everyone on the squad. This was a big chance the captain was taking. A big risk. A big opportunity and John could feel his palms sweating at the thought of it. Especially if something went wrong. But John couldn't let any self doubt assail him now. He had planned this out as best he could. The time. The location. The position of the squads of policemen. Of himself. Of Rodney who was in another car, waiting.

John had given the orders. Apprehend all suspects. Deadly force only if necessary. Aiden was to be arrested along with the rest. If there was a secret sympathizer in Rodney's organization the guy would be here. The spy would be revealed. So John waited. Waited. LVPD all around, unseen. Unheard. Waiting for his express command, and his only.

Inside Vincent's the bait was positioned. Visible from the grimy window of the office. There was only one way in and one way out. A pastiche created by Evan from the scan of the creature's skull. A 3-D rendering of the sketch he had made. What he had imagined the creature to look like when it had been alive. It was pretty close to the actual thing, from what John could dimly recall. John was forced to admire the other man's skills.

The model moved a little. John had positioned it as if the creature was sitting, waiting. Making it slightly wobble as if alive. In no distress. The added white wig was a snarl of tangles and only added to the illusion of motion.

"Motion. Three o'clock," sounded a voice in his hear.

"Acknowledged. Do not engage until all targets are acquired. On my mark," John quietly ordered. Wiped his sweaty hands on his thighs. Felt the solid surety of the gun at his hip.

"John? When–"

"Soon. Wait for my mark, Rodney," John stated. Cutting off the scientist.

The long shadows obscured them, but then they were visible. Gathering in twos and threes, all clad alike in black hoodies and jeans. Trying to move surreptitiously but appearing so obviously suspect that John almost laughed. Amateurs. He watched them converge on the office. Talking, gesticulating. There was some argument as another one joined them. They began to enter the building. Nervous glances darting all around them.

"Now," John said quietly. Got out of the car. Immediately policemen emerged from their hiding places. Rushing towards the building. Flashing badges, waving batons.

"LVPD! Everybody down on the ground!"

There were shouts, yells. People scattering but they were trapped in the only doorway leading in and out. Rounded up easily and lined up, on their knees, hands on their heads. Hoodies drawn off them to reveal stunned, angry faces.

John walked along them, but to his disappointment Ford was not among them. He turned as Rodney approached. "Any of these yours?"

"I told you, there is no way we have a moll in our..." Rodney's strenuous objection fell into silence as he stared at one of the suspects. She was a young woman. Blond hair messed by the hood. Wide eyes locked in surprise, then anger. She stared as Rodney moved to her, utter disbelief on his face. "It can't be...you...you?" John eyed the woman. Recognizing her suddenly.

"Yes, me!" Jennifer Keller moved to her feet. "What we're doing is wrong, Rodney! They are superior beings from another galaxy! We should be learning from them, not torturing them! Learning about their superior technology, not persecuting them!"

John winced at the whiny tone, the grating voice. The only thing worse would be nails on a chalkboard. Others were staring at her outburst, her outlandish words. "Take them away," he ordered. "Some insane cult about space aliens. But we got 'em now."

"Jen? You can't be serious! They feed on us!" Rodney exclaimed, shocked. Forgetting they had an audience, however disbelieving.

"Is that any different from what we do to our own?" she challenged.

"Take her away," John snarled, as Rodney seemed frozen. Incapable of making a decision. "What a piece of work that one is. And she works with you?"

Rodney blinked. Watched her being herded into the van with the others. "It's worse than that. She's my, my wife."

"Wow," John commented. Surprised. "I never would have imagined that. I could picture you with someone else, say like that botanist in that diner, remember? You'd be good with her."

"It was, once, before the...huh?" Rodney blinked. Met John's gaze. "And all the ascended women want you but you ended up all alone in the end."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. I don't know why I said that."

"Well, there's your spy. And your facility is safe now."

"Yes, thank you. Have you considered my job offer?"

"Yeah, I was thinking of quitting my day job and becoming a honey tycoon."

"What?"

"Nothing." He looked round. The street was emptying. The suspects all locked in the police van. The police moving to their cars. John entered the building. Grabbed the model and carried it under his arm. Having no idea what to do with it. He joined Rodney in the street and the two men strolled along the shadows. "I just wish Ford had showed. I still need to find him."

"He'll contact you again. Now that he knows you know you may be his only lead to get more enzyme, or so he thinks."

"Let's hope so. I hate having loose ends."

"Or sappy endings that make no sense at all," Rodney commiserated. "San Francisco?" he muttered under his breath.

The two men parted. John headed for his car. Whirled hearing someone following him. He relaxed as Hendricks stepped out of the shadows. Stepped to him. "Sir?"

"That was good work, Sheppard. If you're not careful you might be up for a promotion."

"Me?" John scoffed. "Not likely."

"You never know," Hendricks said with a smile.

John shrugged. Resumed heading for his car. The bust was a success. Not a shot had been fired. The spy had been revealed. Things were going well. Why then did John feel so glum? He felt trapped like a bee in amber, unable to move until he could fully remember the events six months ago. Unable to make a decision. He smiled at the comparison. It made him think of Moira. He wanted to see her. But something prevented him. Certainly not Evan's warning but something else. Indefinable. As if taking this one chance would alter his life irrevocably, but in a good way for a change.

It bothered him, this gap in his memory. On which everything seemed to hinge. He sighed. Looked up to see Chuck near his car. He inwardly cursed. "Why am I not surprised?"

Chuck smiled. "A big bust went down, but what exactly was it about, detective? No one seems to know. I want the scoop, Sheppard. Like, for instance, what the hell is that under your arm?"

John had forgotten about the model of the head. Lost in himself. He scowled. Unlocked his car and threw the model onto the back seat. "None of your business, Campbell."

"Come on, Shep! Word is you rounded up a bunch of drug-addicted religious nuts who were in some kind of cult worshiping endangered species and space aliens, of all things? Care to comment?"

"That's true."

"What? Really?" Chuck stared, amazed. "Wow. What was the cult? Who was the leader? What was the target? Is this related to the Vegas Vampire?" He held out a digital recorder. Eager for the story, the scoop. Envisioning his name on the cover, under the headline.

"Your source is under arrest, yeah, that Keller chick, so the story is over, Chuck. Go back to writing obituaries. Better yet, go back to telemarketing. That was your first job, wasn't it?"

John smiled. Drove away, leaving a stunned Chuck to stare after him.


	9. Chapter 9

Vegas Blues: I See a Darkness9

"_It's amazing how one incident can entirely alter the course of your life."_

Music was blaring. John turned down the radio. The song _Wanted Dead or Alive _thumping from the speakers as he drove down the street, swerved and parked along the sidewalk, startling several passers-by who jumped out of the way. Although they were perfectly safe. John merely smiled at their stares. Got out of the car, snatched the model and entered the art gallery.

A few people were milling about, quietly conversing in hushed tones as they examined a few of the more expressive pieces. They were expensively dressed, the women expensively coiffed. John's lip curled at the sight of them. Comparing his own appearance. The somewhat wrinkled clothes, the scuffed boots. He walked towards the counter. Evan was talking to a very beautiful woman with blond hair piled on top of her head. Rings flashing on her fingers. Rings that would have paid a stack of bills or even a few month's rent. He recalled Moira selling her jewelry to do that. Scowled. "Heads up!" he called, at the same time tossing the model towards the artist.

Evan turned, deftly caught the gruesome sculpture. The woman yelped in surprise, almost dropping the champagne flute she was holding. Evan scowled at John. "Funny. Thanks. Hang on a sec, would you?" He turned back to the woman as he set the model behind the counter. Out of sight. Out of mind.

John didn't like being pushed aside. He moved to the counter. Rang the bell. Flashed his badge at the woman. "LVPD. Police business can't wait, I'm afraid. There was a rumor of some counterfeit art being sold in here."

"What? That's ridiculous and completely untrue!" Evan declared, but the woman was backing away from the counter. Either from John himself or from the allegation he couldn't be sure. Didn't care. "Wait! He's pulling your leg! Everything in here is legit! Wait!"

"And then of course there's the porn stuff, the bondage series. Hey, I think I recognize you from one of those pictures." John accused, pointing at the woman with a lascivious smile.

"What? Shut the hell up, would you! Wait, wait! Oh shit!" Evan was moving after the woman but she was gone, fleeing the store. The other customers were staring, slowly edging their way towards the exit as well. "It's not true! He's just joking around. Tell them! Tell them!"

"Yeah, I'm just joking around. We cops always joke around about pornography and bondage."

"Damn it!" Evan moved to him. "What the hell do you think you're doing? I need those customers! I needed that particular customer! I needed that client! Do you have any idea how much she would have paid for some of this crap? Do you have any idea how much it costs to run a place like this? Do you?"

John shrugged. "No...no idea. I was just returning the model. Thanks. It did the trick."

"Great, that's great. And where's my fee?"

"You weren't doing this out of the goodness of your heart?" John quipped. Handed him a plain brown envelope. "All there. Cash from the sting operation. All right?"

Evan opened it. Counted the bills. "All right. Now get the hell out of my gallery and never come back here!"

"Don't be like that, Lorne. We might need your talents again and I–"

"Hell, no. I never want to see you again! Get out now!" He pointed towards the door.

"Sounds like you're breaking up with me."

"I am. Get out now!"

"Suit yourself, Lorne." He snatched a flute of champagne from the tray. Drank it down in big gulps. Licked his lips. "Nice, but I prefer something stronger. See ya around."

"No, you won't."

John smirked, nodded at the staring customers and exited the store. The heat enveloped him but he hardly noticed as someone was loitering by his car. "Again?" he muttered. "Hey! Hey, you!"

The guy turned. It was Aiden. "Ford! Wait!" But Aiden ran. John ran after him, dodging through traffic. "Stop right there! LVPD! Get out of the way!"

The two raced down the sidewalk, swerving past people who scrambled out of the way. Aiden rounded a corner. John did the same, saw it was a dead end. He slowed. Aiden was no where in sight. "Aiden, I want to help you. Come out now. We can talk this through, buddy. Just you and me. All right? You did good back there. With the bust. You did real good. Come on, kid."

Shadows sliced the alley in half. Dumpsters lined one side. There was movement. John pulled his gun, only to see a rat scurry out of its hiding place and into another. John carefully advanced, lowering his gun. "There's no way out, Aiden. I'm tired of playing hide and seek. Let me help you. I know people who can help you. Can give you the enzyme you need."

Motion at the far end of the alley, where a chain link fence straddled, blocking all egress. Aiden stepped out of the shadows. He looked awful. Thinner then the last time. Visibly shaking until he suddenly went very still. Empty hands at his sides. "Shep?"

"Yeah, buddy. Let's go get you some help. You need help, right?"

"I don't, I don't feel so good..." his voice was weak, stammering. "Whatever, whatever that thing did to me, gave me I need more. I need more!"

"I know. I got you covered, buddy. Let's go. I know a place that can help you." John slowly advanced. Holstered his gun. "I want to help you, Aiden. Bring you back to the fold."

"You do? All I ever wanted...all I ever wanted was to be a cop, Shep. To help people. Like you do. That's all I wanted!" He seemed near tears. Shaking again. "Look what you did to me! Look what you made me! A freak! A monster on the run!" He tore off the eyepatch. "See? See?" He revealed his forearm. Scaly skin was lining it, like nothing that John had ever seen. "What's happening to me, Shep?"

"We're gonna find out, buddy. Just come with me now and–"

Aiden rushed at him, shouting. Brandishing a pipe. John acted on pure instinct. Falling to his knee and drawing his gun. One shot. Another, as Aiden kept coming but then fell abruptly. Bleeding. Convulsing as a seizure took him. As his body's need for the enzyme consumed him.

John dropped his gun, rolled the young man onto his back. "Ford? Hang on, buddy, I'll get you help, I promise!" John was calling it in but he paused. It was too late. Aiden stared up at him. Lifeless. Gone. John could see his own reflection in Aiden's solid black eye.

Accusing.

The bar was oddly crowded, yet John found a seat at the end. Sipping his beer as he watched Carson limp past him, serving customers. "Hey, doc. Good to see you back," he said. Needing some distraction, some sense of normal human interaction.

Carson met his gaze, pausing. "No thanks to you, detective."

"About that. I..." John didn't know what to say.

"Let me be plain, detective. You're not welcome here."

"Come again?"

"You heard. Next time you need some analysis done go find your own expert."

"Hey, it was Moira who brought me to you, remember?"

"Aye, I do, and I will tell her the same. I've heard things about you, Sheppard, and they're not good things. Not at all."

"So you want me out of your bar?" John asked, feeling a genuine dismay.

"Got it in one, detective. Good for you. Not get out. You're barred."

John stood. "Are you going to warn me off Moira as well?" he snapped, flinging bills on the counter to pay his tab. Pissed.

"No. Her business is her business."

"Glad to hear it. For what it's worth, doc, you were a big help to the case."

"It's worth nothing."

"I heard you've been through worse."

"Aye, I have. But getting shot in my own bar by some damn thug was not in my agenda. What's next? Am I going to operate on some guy who has an exploding tumor and die stupidly in the act, only to be replaced by a clone of myself because of a vigorous fan campaign to save me? Now go!" He pointed to the door.

"Huh? Fine. If that's how you want it, Beckett."

"It is. Don't darken my doorstep again. Ever."

John scowled. Left. Pissed. Oddly disappointed that he had inadvertently lost the doctor's good opinion. An idea had been forming. The glimmer of another life, another chance. A new job. The foundations of a sort of team. But Beckett's coldness washed over these thoughts. Lorne's disparagement drowned them. O'Meara's iciness all but froze them.

John made his way back to the precinct.

Back to work. Back to a monotonous job, a monotonous life with pieces missing. Gaps in his memory. Gaps in his life. In his heart. Back to the darkness of yet another life lost because of his actions. Another tally in the always increasing black marks against him.

Back to Vegas.


End file.
